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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292027">Moonlight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schadenfreudah/pseuds/Schadenfreudah'>Schadenfreudah</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime &amp; Manga)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Ancient Egypt, First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 06:47:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,789</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292027</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schadenfreudah/pseuds/Schadenfreudah</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>During a trip into one of the Pharaoh's most remote dungeons, the King of Thieves encounters an unexpected stranger.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bakura Ryou/Thief King Bakura</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>81</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Moonlight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezunaria/gifts">mezunaria</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a cold night, in the Pharaoh's remote dungeons.</p><p>Pressing himself to the wall, Bakura edges along the rough, chiseled stone, his hood over his eyes and the sack he’d brought with him clutched in his arms. Below, there’s a sandy pit—a pit that, should he fall into it, he doubts he’d be able to claw his way out.</p><p>Not that that’s ever stopped him before.</p><p>Silently, he steals across the ledge of the sandy pit, jumping down into the empty clearing when the ledge meets the rest of the dungeon’s high walls. Impenetrable, he had heard it being called before—impossible to sneak into, even more impossible to escape from.</p><p>Grinning, his cheeks buffeted by the strong winds, the Thief King suspects that he rather likes the word impossible. It’s a nice challenge, when he’s feeling bored. As he slips through the darkness, he observes the barracks before him. He’d come here for the thrill of it, yes, but not <em> only </em>for the thrill of it. There’s a job to be done; a rather annoying one, granted, but one he’s being paid handsomely for. It’s more symbolic than anything—breaking a former lord out of jail to stick it to the Pharaoh—but Bakura likes those kinds of jobs better than the more material ones. </p><p>Gold, he can find anywhere. But the satisfaction of watching the hapless Palace soldiers flounder to find the escapee afterwards, tripping over themselves in a frenzy? That’s <em> priceless. </em></p><p>It won’t be too difficult, really, in spite of the rumors. The guards’ senses are dulled by exhaustion and pilfered wine; if he’s quick enough, they might not even notice he’s been there at all until days later. Creeping forward, his eyes sweep across the cells.Most of them are empty—this particular prison is reserved for political prisoners and those in deep debt to the Pharaoh, for the most part. Those who are too soft to go beneath the palace, where the real criminals are kept, squeezed together so tight they can hardly move. </p><p>There’s a guard stationed across from him, but he’s leaning against the pillar, his eyes squeezed shut and head tipped back. His chest rises with shallow breaths; in the silence of the pit, his low snores are clearly audible.</p><p>Bakura almost laughs. “Sleeping on the job,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’ll be getting lashed for that one.”</p><p>Walking past him, he continues on to the second half, looking for the man he’d been sent to find. It only takes him a few minutes; the lord is practically clinging to the bars, his face pressed against the cool metal, eyes trained on Bakura. Dropping onto his knees in front of the cell, Bakura deftly undoes the lock, letting it fall to the ground with a loud thump. The man scrambles out immediately, tripping over himself, landing on all fours on the hard sand. He clings to it, his palms flat on the ground, his forehead pressed to the backs of his hands.</p><p>“Go,” says Bakura after a long, silent moment. “The guard is asleep—unless you’re stupid, you won’t wake him up. He’ll meet you outside.”</p><p>He doesn’t need to specify who ‘he’ is for the lord to nod and scamper away, heading to the long, damp staircase that leads out into the open night. Hopefully his associates have dispatched the other guards by now, and the path should be clear.</p><p>Now the pit is silent again save for the faint patter of the lord’s footsteps. With an exaggerated sigh, Bakura starts heading off in the same direction, ready to follow the man and hitch a ride to the nearest town for a drink.He’s halfway there when, out of the corner of his eye, he spots something. It’s barely in the light, really. If he weren’t a thief, it probably would have escaped his notice. But as is, Bakura’s gaze follows the patch of moonlight into the neighboring cell, and—squatting down—he peers inside. At first, all he can see is an ankle. It’s thin, the knob of it too sharp from underneath the bulky shackle holding it in place. His eyes trail up; it’s attached to a long, pale leg, quaking with the cold, barely covered by a ratty tunic that reaches only mid-thigh. And then, suddenly, he’s looking into the equally pale eyes of a miserable wretch.</p><p>It’s a boy, he realizes after a moment of observation. His long hair is matted and dirty, a light, stained sort of brown in color, and he looks half dead. But he’s still alive—his slim chest squeezes with shallow breaths as he stares out at Bakura from under his shaggy fringe.</p><p>There’s a long silence, punctuated only by the drag of the shackle against the sand as the boy’s leg shivers helplessly.</p><p>“Why?” Bakura asks, and rests his chin on the scarred, dry skin of his palm, his elbows on his knees. “What did <em> you </em>do?” The boy can’t be any older than twenty, if Bakura’s being generous, and he hardly looks the part of the hardened criminal. Not that age particularly matters; Bakura’s done worse at twenty three than most men in their whole lives. </p><p>There’s another long silence. Finally, the boy’s cracked lips part. “I’m here in place of my father,” he manages, his low, parched voice barely strong enough to produce the words. “Our family owes the Pharaoh a great debt.”</p><p>Bakura observes him quietly for another moment. This boy won’t be much use on the road—he has barely any muscle, not yet, and he's malnourished enough that a strong breeze could probably win a fight against him without breaking a sweat. He’s probably as tall as Bakura, but that won’t do him any favors without the mass to support his frame. His soft hands, folded in his lap, betray his lack of any real experience. “What’s your name?” Bakura asks.</p><p>The boy swallows dryly. “Ryou,” he replies, so low it’s a whisper. “My name is Ryou.”</p><p>Bakura nods. “My name’s Bakura,” he says, and reaches forward to undo the lock. “Get up. And try not to fall behind.”</p><p>When it falls to the ground, Ryou looks up at him with wide, surprised eyes. But, without saying a word, he manages to hoist himself up from the ground, pushing his way to a standing position with the cold slab of rock to his side. Stepping into the cell, Bakura kneels and slices the shackle with the dagger strapped to his leg, untethering Ryou from the wall. Then, he rises, and immediately starts in the direction of the stairs. He doesn’t look behind him, but he doesn’t have to. He can hear the scraping of feet against the floor, the sucked-in breaths as Ryou—who probably hasn’t walked such a great length in months—tries to match his pace. When he reaches the bottom of the staircase, he glances over his shoulder.</p><p>Ryou’s face is set in quiet determination while he works to close the distance between them on unsteady legs, holding himself upright despite the strong winds and his lack of practice. After another minute or so, he’s standing behind Bakura, shivering yet still unwavering in his expression. “You didn’t have to wait for me,” he says, his voice a little louder than before. “I would have made it on time.”</p><p>Bakura’s mouth quirks up in a slight smile. “I know,” he says, taking off his cloak and wrapping it around Ryou’s trembling shoulders. “I felt like it, that’s all. A simple ‘thank you’ should suffice.”<br/>
<br/>
Ryou peers at him, his grime-covered face unreadable as he slips more firmly into the cloak, and he finally says, “Thank you.”</p><p>Bakura laughs. “Come on,” he says, and starts up the stairs. “If we’re lucky, the others haven’t left yet.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They’re lucky.</p><p>The wealth of Bakura’s client is useful, as expected—he and Ryou manage to secure seats on the chariot, beside the lord speaking in hushed tones and a few men sitting across from them. Not one of them has dared ask about Ryou; smugly, Bakura reckons they’re probably too wary of him to even try. </p><p>“Thank you, Thief King,” the lord says. His voice is a warbling, cowardly thing; his wealth is even more obvious, then. “I can’t thank you enough.”</p><p>Ryou looks surprised for a moment at the title, and he openly gazes at Bakura, but he doesn’t say a word. </p><p>The driver’s been urging on the oxen as much as he can, but the journey is slow: they’re not <em> quite </em>lucky enough to have horses. Still, it’s better than walking. Bakura knows he could survive, but as weak as Ryou is, he’d probably end up being some predator’s dinner. Though, looking at Ryou out of the corner of his eye—his careful pleasure as he peeks through the curtain at the landscape passing them by—Bakura thinks maybe he’s in the business of being surprised.</p><p>“We’re stopping at an inn,” he murmurs, grabbing Ryou’s attention away from the sloping dunes out the window. “When we arrive, you’ll say that your father has sent you from out of town to go to the market, and that I’ve been appointed as your guard, to accompany you to the neighboring village. We were intercepted by bandits and waylaid off the road, so we’ve come here for the night.”</p><p>Ryou blinks. “I was only trying to buy some honey for father,” he says faintly, his face seized by a sudden haunted look, so abrupt and so intense in its anguish that it takes Bakura aback. “And then they came for me. It all happened so <em>fast</em>.”</p><p>It takes Bakura a few more seconds than he’d like to admit to realize Ryou is just acting. "You’re a natural,” he says, amused, once his new companion’s face relaxes into its natural set. "I shouldn't have been worried."</p><p>For the first time in their brief acquaintance, Ryou smiles. “I have a lot of experience. Time passes slowly, down in the pit,” he explains, hushed and low. “I had to amuse myself somehow.”</p><p>Bakura raises a brow. “So you started a one man theatre,” he says, with heavy skepticism. “Understandable.”</p><p>Ryou shrugs, but the gesture isn't one of offense. “I also drew,” he says. “And played ditties in my head full of all kinds of wonderful instruments, and acquired many jewels and riches, and flew in the sky among the clouds and the birds. It was a lot of fun.”</p><p>Though perhaps to anyone else Ryou’s words might have seemed bizarre, Bakura understands—from years of solitude, of lonely nights on the desert, of mirages—precisely what he means. “Me, too,” he replies, and says nothing more.</p><p>They exchange a glance—Ryou’s pale eyes look out at Bakura from under his dusty, matted hair—before the chariot falls silent again, and the rest of the trip goes by in a comfortable, familiar sort of quiet.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>At the inn, once all the others have dispersed and it’s just the two of them, Ryou performs his role perfectly.</p><p>He looks every bit the traumatized ingenue as he explains the tale of their woes, though perhaps that’s not a particularly difficult look on him. By the time he’s done, the innkeeper’s looking at the two of them with a pity so pronounced it almost makes Bakura laugh.This little ploy serves them well; it diverts suspicion from Ryou’s bedraggled appearance and Bakura’s face, distracting the plump woman from the white hair and long, serrated scar she must have heard about in the town.</p><p>“There’s a cabin just around the back,” the innkeeper explains, her round cheeks flushed with excitement as she escorts Ryou to the door, Bakura trailing behind them. “I’m sure you’ll find it suitable for your needs, Raia.”</p><p>Bakura presses enough copper bits into her palm to cover a single night’s stay and follows Ryou towards the cabin, glancing warily around them to ensure no one who’d seen the wink of metal had decided to follow. But there’s not a soul to be seen; their only companions are the slight whistle of the wind and the shuffling of their own feet on the ground.<br/>
<br/>
Once they’re inside, Ryou looks over at Bakura, as if prompting him to comment. Bakura lets out a laugh, dropping his satchel onto the ground. “You did well,” he admits easily, sitting down on the wooden slab of the bed. “A fake name, too—I think she would’ve married you off to her daughter, if you didn’t look like such a street urchin.”</p><p>Ryou seems pleased at this, mulling over Bakura’s words for a long, drawn out moment. Then, moving from the doorway, he sits down next to Bakura, only inches separating their thighs. It’s hot now—unlike the cool night of the desert, the moist village air is humid and clammy, and the sweat’s cut pale stripes through the dirt coating Ryou’s cheeks. “What now?” he asks, after a pause.</p><p>Bakura looks over at him. “You can go home, if you’d like,” he says. “I’m sure your father would be happy to see his son returned to him.” It’s less a legitimate suggestion than a probe, truthfully—no one in a prison like that has a safe home to return to—but Bakura’s curious.</p><p>“There’s no one to go back for,” Ryou replies, and shakes his head. “My father’s gone. My mother’s dead, and so is my sister.”</p><p>Bakura lets out a thoughtful hum. “I thought so,” he says. The words are perhaps callous—he supposes it’s better to offer words of sympathy—but Bakura ran dry of sympathy so long ago, bled of it from years of living on the streets.</p><p>Ryou doesn’t seem to mind, though. Leaning towards him, he rests his head on his shoulder, the sudden contact making Bakura’s arm tense in surprise. “I’ll stay with you, then,” he says, definitively. “I’m quite happy being in the entourage of the King of Thieves.”</p><p>Bakura’s silent for a moment. He doesn’t need Ryou—there’s little he can do to help, and even if he did have anything to offer, Bakura works alone. Despite his uncanny knack for lying and his cleverness, the boy is just too <em>weak</em>; he’s not accustomed to the lifestyle of a thief, hasn’t been hardened by the years as Bakura has. “You’ll have to learn how to look after yourself,” Bakura warns. “I’ll leave you behind if you weigh us down.”</p><p>Ryou nods, his eyes drooping shut. “I know,” he yawns, and curls into Bakura’s body like a cat.</p><p>The day's exhaustion has obviously caught up with him; his limbs are limp and heavy, draped over Bakura's broad shoulders. Bakura looks down at his placid face, chest suddenly tight. Ryou’s implicit trust weighs on him, heavy as a stone. The boy isn't afraid in the slightest; rather, he's allowed himself to drift off to sleep without a single means of defense, his throat bared. The cold metal of dagger tucked into his side bleeds into his skin; if he wanted, Bakura could slit Ryou's neck open and he wouldn't even wake.</p><p>"Silly," Bakura mutters.</p><p>Leaning against the wall, he shifts Ryou's head onto his lap, and strokes his hair until he, too, slips into unconsciousness.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When he wakes up, Ryou is gone.</p><p>Stretching, Bakura stands, cracking his tense neck and rubbing his sleep-glazed eyes. When his vision clears, he looks around the room, quickly ensuring that all his belongings—including the reward from last night’s escapade—are where he left them. He makes his way over to the window slowly, and looks out to see the goings-on around the small cabin. It’s life as usual—chickens squawking as they run around the courtyard, children running barefoot chasing them into an even greater panic.</p><p>The door swings open after a few moments, the quiet squeak of footsteps shuffling in after. “I’m back,” comes Ryou’s voice from the entrance. “I brought bread—the innkeeper gave it to me, she said I didn’t need to give her anything in return because I helped her make it. I think it’s still pretty warm.”</p><p>Bakura turns, about to reply, until the words are stolen out of his mouth when he sees a boy standing in the doorway—a boy who, he realizes after a moment of stunned silence, must be Ryou.</p><p>In the hours of Bakura's sleep, Ryou had managed to find a stream fit for bathing on his own. His face is clean, pale cheeks flushed with healthy heat—his delicate features are more elegant than they’d seemed under the layer of grime, his nose gently sloped and lips full and pink. Most remarkable of all is his hair. It’s not brown like it had first appeared, not at all—washed free of its dirt coating, it’s white and fluffy, so soft it looks like a curtain of finely-stitched feathers. It looks like his own. A little bit lighter, maybe, but it's the same striking color he’s been known for all his life.</p><p>Ryou blinks, shifting his weight awkwardly between his feet as he waits for some sort of a response.</p><p>Getting his bearings, Bakura’s eyes eventually fall on the bread clutched in Ryou’s hands. “We should split that,” he says. “Give it here.”<br/>
<br/>
Ryou nods, and hands the bread to Bakura, sitting down on the bed as he watches him slowly tear it in half. After a moment, Bakura tosses one of the halves in Ryou’s direction—the bigger half, though he won’t acknowledge it if he were asked—and starts shoving his own portion in his mouth, swallowing it down greedily. He hasn’t eaten in too long—since the beer he’d gulped down yesterday morning, all he’s managed to get his hands on was a piece of garlic before he’d left last night. And that wasn’t for nutrition, either—Bakura knows what the desert’s like at night, what creatures roam there, searching for easy prey.</p><p>Looking up, he tears off another piece with his teeth, watching Ryou as he chews. His new companion hasn’t even touched his bread yet; he’s just staring at it, his eyes wide with wonder. Bakura swallows. “Eat,” he orders, jerking his head in Ryou’s direction. “It’ll get cold.”</p><p>Ryou’s tongue darts out, sweeping across his bottom lip. Then, he finally starts to nibble on the bread, taking small, hesitant bites until he finally opens his mouth wider and rips off a larger piece. After that, it goes by quick—he practically wolfs it down, barely chewing as he tries to swallow as much as he can.</p><p>Bakura laughs, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. “You’re going to choke if you eat that fast,” he says. After a pause, he asks, chest heavy with irritation, “How often did they feed you down there?”</p><p>Ryou shoves the last bite in his mouth and says, a bulge in his cheek, “Not very often," he answers. "Water, when it was dangerously hot. Some dried figs, every two days or so, if they remembered.”</p><p>“Right,” Bakura sneers. The angry, mangled, ever-present knot in his throat burns hotter as his eyes trace over Ryou's malnourished body, examining the bones that stick out at awkward angles under his ratty garments. “Nothing but the finest for the Pharaoh’s old bitches. Serves them right, for biting the hand that beats them.”</p><p>There’s a prolonged, drawn out silence; the only noise in the small cabin is the low buzz of the insects outside, flitting around in the dry air. Then, Ryou asks, hesitant and low, “Do you resent the Pharaoh, Bakura?”</p><p>Bakura lets out another laugh, and replies, just as low, “Don’t you?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They stay at the inn for the rest of the day. </p><p>Bakura ventures out into town later in the afternoon. When he leaves, Ryou is dozing off on the bed; he’s still exhausted, his body worn out from last night’s travels and the sudden excitement of movement again. Bakura contemplates asking the innkeeper to watch him, but the jewelry in Bakura’s satchel and the striking white of Ryou’s hair could arouse too much suspicion.</p><p>He manages to find Ryou some real clothes to replace his rags. It’s a loose, linen thing that will stay cinched around Ryou’s slender waist with a belt. Bakura buys him some sandals, too, as an afterthought. They’re not nearly as good as Bakura’s leather ones, but they’ll do for now; he won’t be able to find something of a good enough quality here. Stepping back into the cabin closer to nightfall, the anxiety that’s been churning in his chest settles when he sees Ryou, still soundly and peacefully asleep on the bed. He’s such a strange creature—Bakura can’t prevent his gaze from being momentarily captivated by the expanse of his legs, his long, light hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest.</p><p>When his greedy eyes have drunk their fill, Bakura approaches and sets his purchases down on the ground, sitting down on the bed beside Ryou. “Hey,” he says, and shakes the sleeping boy's arm. “Come on. Time to wake up.”</p><p>Ryou stirs beneath his rough touch and stretches himself out on the mattress as he lets out a yawn. His bleary eyes blink open, and he gazes fondly up at Bakura before he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, “Did I fall asleep? I didn’t mean to.”</p><p>Bakura nods, and leans back to allow Ryou enough room to sit up. Once his companion is upright, he reaches into his satchel, rummaging about for a bit before he pulls out the linen-wrapped flatbread. “It’s for you,” he says. “You need to start eating normally again if you want to regain your strength.” The other half of the sentence lingers in the air; neither one of them needs to finish it to parse the threat that roils in its wake.</p><p>Ryou nods, rubbing at his eyes with his fists. Reaching out, he takes the bread from Bakura’s hands, pulling down the wrapping to start nibbling on the rounded top.</p><p>“Slower,” Bakura warns. “Otherwise you’ll really make yourself sick this time.”</p><p>Ryou nods again, taking a small bite. His eyes light up—they dart nervously back to Bakura, as if reassuring himself that it’s okay, before he takes a bigger portion, chewing slowly.</p><p>“I had some, earlier,” says Bakura, grinning. “It’s good, isn’t it?”</p><p>Swallowing, Ryou says wondorously, “It’s really good.”</p><p>Bakura picks his satchel up from the ground and sets it in his lap, pulling out some of the other things he’d gotten. “I found you some new clothes, since you can't very well wear those rags out,” he says, lifting them up for Ryou to see. “Some sandals, too. Should help your feet."</p><p>Eyes wide, Ryou breathes out, “But I can’t pay you back—I have no money."<br/>
<br/>
Bakura lets out a loud, bellowing laugh, and waves a dismissive hand in his direction. When Ryou falls silent, he says, “I didn’t pay for them in the first place,” he says, his grin widening, “so why should you have to pay me back? It was no expense on my part.”</p><p>"The King of Thieves," Ryou says. "<em>Right</em>." His face is still with surprise for a moment, before a wobbly smile twists his mouth. "You know, I've never met someone like you before in my life,” he confesses, a peculiar look flooding his light eyes. “No one’s ever made this much effort on my behalf."</p><p>Bakura shrugs. “You didn’t fall behind,” he says, simply. “I think you’ve earned it.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>They leave for good the next morning.</p><p>The innkeeper kicks up a grand fuss about it. Bakura leaves Ryou with her when he gathers some supplies from town to last them the next few days on the road, and when he comes back a while later she’s still there. It’s strange how persistent she is, trying to convince Ryou to stay a little longer, clinging onto his spindly arm.</p><p>“We’ll send word to your father, Raia,” she urges, “but the children love you, and you were such a good helper yesterday morning. I could house you, of course, in one of the spare cabins.”</p><p>Ryou only shakes his head, carefully extracting himself from her grip. “Thank you,” he says, his voice kinder than Bakura would’ve expected. “But I’ve got to go now. Surely they’re waiting for me back home.”</p><p>Sighing, the innkeeper draws back. “I can’t deny you that,” she says. “But you’re always welcome here, if you want to come back.”</p><p>Ryou nods, and offers her a grateful wave, before he turns his back on the inn and follows Bakura out towards the village square. Whatever he's feeling, it doesn't show on his impassive face; Ryou walks in step with Bakura, shoulder occasionally nudging against his own but otherwise still.</p><p>“You could’ve stayed,” remarks Bakura after a few minutes pass, as he leads Ryou down a winding side street to reach the stables. The words he's been holding back—and the question in them—bubble out of his throat. “You surely would’ve led a comfortable life there—you would've been well fed, well housed. Well loved, if that's what you wanted."</p><p>Ryou doesn’t look up at him. “I know,” he says, softly. “But I didn’t want to leave you. I'm allowed that.”</p><p>Bakura doesn’t reply—he doesn’t know what to say in response to something like that. Instead, he nods, and they spend the rest of the journey in silence. When they arrive, Bakura pays the stablehand a few copper bits he has on him and leads the horse out onto the road. Helping Ryou up onto its back, he fastens the bridle onto its long snout, taking hold of the reins and hoisting himself up.</p><p>“Hold onto me,” he says, getting himself properly situated. “Or else you’ll fall off.”</p><p>As soon as Ryou’s thin arms wrap around his middle, they’re off, and the horse is galloping down the road and propelling them away from the town square. Hair whipping in the wind, Ryou lets out a gleeful laugh, and breathes into Bakura’s ear, “It’s so <em> fast!"</em></p><p>Bakura grins, and goes even faster.</p><p>They ride for hours, exchanging few words. They don’t have to fill the space with mindless chatter. The landscape does the speaking for them—its blur of yellows and oranges, the faded green of its wilting trees, the gentle, sloping dunes. It’s nothing new to Bakura. He’s traversed this route a thousand times; he feels like he’s seen the whole of Egypt, sometimes, like he could recognize every mountain or molehill in a glance. But Ryou’s awe—his quiet murmurs of excitement, his low gasps—move him to slow down, allow them both time to drink in the sights and sounds that surround them as the sun swells high in the sky, and casts a low light on the features of the earth.</p><p>When night falls, Bakura leads them up the mountain running beside the path, until they’re resting on a small edge in the valley of the cliff. Slipping off the horse, he extends a hand to Ryou, helping him down from his seat on its back. He leads it over to the tree near the rock face, dropping a few bites of food from his pocket onto the ground and fastening its reins to a low hanging branch of the tree. When it bows its head to eat, Bakura pulls away, leaving it to rest, and joins Ryou.</p><p>“We’re going to the capital,” he explains, sitting down on the large boulder resting against the wall of rock. “I have business there—and it’s a good place to get odd jobs, if you’re in the market for them. Which, currently, we are.”</p><p>Ryou tilts his head, curious, as he moves to sit himself down beside Bakura on the rock. “Business?” he asks.</p><p>Bakura raises a brow. “You know who I am,” he says. “Do you really need to know anything more?”</p><p>“Ah, the ever mighty King of Thieves,” replies Ryou, grinning so cheekily that his eyes glint. “Right. Something grand, then—an extra large piece of bread this time?”</p><p>Leaning forward, Bakura musses up Ryou’s hair, fingers brushing through the wild strands. The gesture elicits a halfhearted sigh of displeasure from Ryou; his thick fringe flops into his eyes with the movement. “Careful,” he teases. “I came up with that name myself, y’know. I can't have anyone go around insulting it and damage my reputation.”</p><p>Shaking the hair out of his face, the coy look on Ryou’s face melts into curiosity. “I thought that was just what the myth was called,” he ventures. “But you chose it for yourself? Why?”</p><p>"Oh, you know," Bakura says, and gestures vaguely to himself. Then, after thinking about it for a moment, he lets out a laugh. “That’s a long, old story,” he says. “If I’m going to tell it to you, I need some wine.”</p><p>Ryou’s grin widens into something more mischievous. “The innkeeper gave me a parting gift,” he says, and reaches into the satchel around Bakura’s neck to pull out a small flask he hadn’t even realized was there. The boy had to have snuck it in sometime whilst they were walking together; for all his years of experience, Bakura hadn't noticed a thing. “And besides, we have plenty of time, no?”</p><p>Bakura stares at his smiling face for a moment, thrown off-kilter; his pulse thrums hot and heavy in his chest. “Fine,” he musters, steadily, though his voice is rather too breathless for his liking. “But if you fall asleep, you’ll never hear the end of it.”</p><p>Nodding, Ryou sits up straight. “I won’t,” he says, and leans forward on his elbows. “Trust me.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>True to his word, Ryou manages to stay awake.</p><p>Bakura hadn’t been lying—it is a long story. It’s not the longest he could tell, and he leaves out some of the details—the embittered life he had led hadn't been easy, then—which he’s certain Ryou notices. But it’s a festive night; there’s sweet wine passed between them, laughter bubbling in the air amidst the gentle flickering of the fire they ultimately light at their feet. There’s no room for the ghosts of the past to whisper their sordid truths in either of their ears.</p><p>When he’s finally done, Ryou’s a mess of giggles, his cheeks flushed a deep red from the wine and the laughter both. “I can’t believe you stole the footrest right from under his nose!” he wheezes, his shoulders shaking, narrow frame incapable of containing his amusement. “And that he didn’t even notice until he tried to sit down.”</p><p>Bakura shoots him a smug grin, and shrugs. “I’m never letting go of that thing,” he says. “I think I should bring it to his family when he dies—it’ll really rub the whole thing in. Just imagine the looks on their faces—<em>priceless</em>!”<br/>
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Ryou shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “You’re unbelievable,” he says, his voice still shaking with a few leftover laughs. “I would’ve run away the second he said I’d get lashes.”</p><p>With a low hum, Bakura says, “I’d been lashed plenty of times before, so it wasn't a novelty." It's not an easy admission; the words stick in his throat. "Anyway, I knew even if he <em> had </em>managed to catch me, he probably wouldn’t do any permanent damage. Not at his age.”</p><p>At that, Ryou sobers somewhat. “That’s not everything, though,” he says after a beat, softer even than usual. “Is it? Something has to have happened to have gotten you into that position in the first place.”</p><p>Bakura lets out another hum. “It’s everything for tonight,” he corrects. It's not a question he's been asked before, nor is the response a story he would revel in telling—not to someone he's fond of, anyway. In an echo of Ryou's words, he shoots the boy a sidelong glance and adds, “We have plenty of time for the rest.”</p><p>Illuminated by the soft glow of the flames, Ryou’s eyes seem to glitter as he returns the look. To Bakura, they're brighter and lovelier than any of the Pharaoh's jewels. “Whatever your business is in the capital is,” he says. “I want to help you, if you'll let me."</p><p>Bakura’s gaze sweeps across his face. “Why?” he asks. The jovial mood softens, shifts; it thickens in turgid the air between them. "What could you possibly stand to gain? You don't even know why, or what it's for.”</p><p>It’s the question that’s persisted since Bakura laid eyes on him for the first time in that miserable dungeon, which he’s asked himself innumerable times as he’s looked over at Ryou—weak, inexperienced Ryou, who’s never fought to survive, who had resigned himself to dying in the Pharaoh’s pit until Bakura had stumbled upon him. There’s no need for him—his presence slows Bakura down. It already has. And yet the inconvenience doesn't bother him. The more time has passed, the less it feels like an inconvenience at all.</p><p>Ryou doesn’t seem distressed, nor offended. Instead, he only laughs, and scoots over to Bakura so their thighs are pressed together. The warmth of his body bleeds into his skin, and those thin arms press against Bakura’s as Ryou leans in so their noses brush and gazes at him with those half-lidded, beautiful eyes. “I have nothing to gain,” he whispers. “But I want to help you, anyways. Is that odd?”</p><p>Bakura swallows, licking his bottom lip. “Very odd indeed,” he breathes out. “<em>Ryou.</em> I’ve never met someone like you before.”</p><p>And then, before either of them have the chance to say anything more, he crushes his mouth to Ryou’s and lets his eyes slips shut as he kisses him rough and slow, just the way he'd dreamt. Ryou sighs against his lips, and his arms reach out to wind around Bakura’s neck, his fingers bunching in the hood of Bakura’s cloak and pressing their bodies closer together. And for once, Bakura allows himself to forget—about his plans in the capital, about the spirits tugging him every which way, about the burning rubble and sick, golden pot at the centre of his chest. All he knows is Ryou’s lips, the whisper of his hair against Bakura’s cheek, the winding trace of his fingers on his skin as they map out the scars on his cheek and back.</p><p>When they finally break apart, Ryou beams. His face is all flushed, mouth bitten and swollen—he looks awfully pleased. “I’m glad that we found each other then,” he says. "Everything that lies ahead—it's bound to be interesting, isn't it?"</p><p>And before he kisses Ryou again, Bakura says, smiling just as wide, “I think so, too.”</p>
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